Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(102)

“There’s a long list of people who wanted this honor,” Marc said, pulling out a sword. “I hope they forgive me for taking it myself.”

“No!” The scream sounded like breaking glass, and Marc barely turned in time to block Lessa’s blow. She wore her own face, and it was coated with blood, her hair a tangled mess, and her clothes torn. She attacked with a mad ferocity, not giving Marc a moment’s respite.

Which was why he didn’t see Angoulême move, or the knife that appeared in his hand.

But I did. And I also saw that his face was smeared with Roland’s blood, blood that was steeped with all the iron I’d pulled from the boy’s body. I reached for the power, for the magic, and said, “Bind the light.”

Angoulême froze, then his silver eyes tracked through the smoke and darkness to land on the rock where I was hidden. Giving one passing glance to ensure Marc was engaged with Lessa, he climbed to his feet and started toward me, knife in hand. “I think you’ve played your last card, little bird.”

I scuttled backwards, the smoldering ground burning the palms of my hand.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he said with a smile. “Who do you think it was who taught Roland all his tricks?”

I whimpered, feeling my pants dampen and hating myself for it. I was supposed to be brave, was supposed to see this through, no matter what the cost. But I’d been afraid of him from the moment we’d met, and that, that hadn’t changed.

Then a roar filled the air, and fire brighter than the sun filled the sky. A massive form with wings passed over me, and I curled into a ball, closing my eyes against the heat. I felt rather than heard the thud of something landing next to me, and then Tristan was there, smothering the flames eating at my clothing. His face was carved with shadows, his clothes torn and crusted with salt. But he was alive, and he was here.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway. “Angoulême? Where is he?”

Tristan’s eyes searched our surroundings, then he shook his head. “I don’t see him.”

“His magic is bound,” I said. “Find him, and kill him.”

“But Roland–”

“Is cured,” I said. “Now go before Angoulême finds somewhere to wash off the blood.”

His eyes lit up in a way I hadn’t seen in a very long time, and he kissed me. “Be safe,” he said, then was gone.

With the exception of the crackling of the burning woods, the night had gone eerily quiet. Holding my shirt over my mouth in an attempt to block the worst of the smoke, I began to search for my friends. I found Sabine first, and Chris, who had Souris tucked into his coat. But of Marc and the twins, there was no sign.

“How did you find him?” I asked, allowing Sabine to pack snow against my blistered palms.

“I didn’t,” Chris said. “His little rat dog friend did. He was half dead under one of those skiffs and surrounded by bodies, but the damn thing has nose like a bloodhound.” He took hold of my shoulder. “But he’s burnt out, Cécile. I don’t think he could create so much as a ball of light if his life depended on it.”

And I’d just sent him after Angoulême.

“You two find Marc or the twins. I have to find him,” I said, starting off in the direction he’d gone. To myself, I said, “If the Duke breaks my spell, Tristan won’t have a chance.”

“And what a shame that would be,” Lessa said, stepping into my path.





Chapter Sixty-Two





Tristan





It occurred to me as I sprinted through the woods without enough magic to keep the burning ground from singing my boots that I was making a mistake. That I should retreat and regroup, give my power a chance to recover itself, and then come up with a clever strategy for catching Angoulême.

But I was done with clever strategies.

Done with relying on deception and duplicity, bluffs and illusion, to capture my enemies and win my battles. I wanted a fight, and if it was to be bare knuckles, so much the better.

But in order for there to be a chance of that happening, I had to catch Angoulême before he could wash off Roland’s blood and with it, Cécile’s spell. And knowing that would be his goal, I headed in the direction of the river I’d seen from Melusina’s back.

My lungs choked on the ash in the air, my body screaming under the strain of being pushed so hard after it had already endured so much. Sparks bit at my skin, burned holes in my already torn clothes, but I ignored the pain and pushed on, jumping over fallen trees and pools of grey sludge, finally reaching the edge of the forest fire.

Angoulême crouched in the center of the clearing, coat and shirt in a heap beside him, hands full of the snow he was using to scrub the blood off his skin. Swearing silently, I put on a burst of speed. He looked up, and I slammed into him, our combined weight sending us tumbling through the clearing and down a steep slope.

We crashed up against trees and rocks, bushes cutting and slicing as we rolled into the gully to land with a crack on the frozen stream. The ice fractured, and we dropped, freezing water flooding over my head. Staggering to my feet, I dragged him out and threw him against a tree, the trunk cracking with the impact.

At first I thought he was choking on the water he’d inhaled, then I realized he was laughing. Climbing out of the stream, I stalked toward him even as he rose to his feet, one hand pressed to his side. “Feeling a little burned out, are we, Your Highness?”